


Fucking in Hell

by squidmemesinc



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Barebacking, Car Sex, M/M, gives a new meaning to hotboxing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kentarou’s back is sweating into these seats with Yahaba sitting on his hips, head crouched low under the low roof of the car. His hands are pressing against Kentarou’s bare chest, which makes him warmer, but not just because of the body heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hoots softly............ I love........KyouYaha....... I'm sorry for ruining your prompt with smut Isy
> 
> (https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/4771.html?thread=1864099&posted=1#cmt1869731)
> 
> Do you ever look at all the porn you've written and wonder why

The heat magnifies as it passes through the dirty windows of this dirty, awful, metal box. There is one single upside to this car and that is that it doesn’t have leather seats. They’re cloth, with the stuffing breaking free of the ancient upholstery and showing puffy spots of stale, ancient yellow.

Kentarou’s back is sweating into these seats with Yahaba sitting on his hips, head crouched low under the low roof of the car. His hands are pressing against Kentarou’s bare chest, which makes him warmer, but not just because of the body heat.

“Can’t we go somewhere else? It’s gotta be 38 degrees in here, fucking shit,” he complains.

“Are you telling me you want to stop?” Yahaba grinds his pelvis slowly against Kentarou’s, cocking his head to the side. Kentarou swallows and doesn’t reply. “It doesn’t bother me.” His eyes struggle to keep from flicking across Yahaba’s naked body.

“That’s because you’re a demon from hell,” Kentarou spits back.

Yahaba slaps him, hard, and Kentarou prays he can’t feel his dick twitch in his pants. “Don’t be rude,” he says softly, sounding very devilish, maybe on purpose.

“You hit like a girl,” Kentarou says after a moment, clearly not having learned his lesson (wanting to be taught it again).

Yahaba’s slim fingers curl around his throat, but don’t squeeze. “I bet you wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been hit by a girl.”

Kentarou has, in fact, been hit by a girl, more than once. It hurt more than he’ll admit to Yahaba, unless the guy sees fit to pull it out of him, which Kentarou kind of hopes he does. He’s quiet as Yahaba trails his fingers down his chest, digging his nails in and leaving skid marks of broken skin on top of red welts. He doesn’t react other than breathing in slightly harsher and squeezing Yahaba’s hips harder. He wants to urge Yahaba on—they’ve just been sitting like this for a few minutes—but experience tells him waiting might turn out more profitable. He tries to adjust himself so his head isn’t pressing quite so hard into the doorframe. Kentarou wishes he wasn’t wearing pants.

“So quiet all of a sudden.”

“I’m slowly sweating to death.”

“Maybe I should distract you, then.”

He doesn’t reply, trying not to let his eagerness show on his face. He probably just looks nervous, which he is. He holds his breath as Yahaba leans down to kiss him, doesn’t dare to touch him until his tongue is pressing into his already open, hungry mouth. He finds himself leaning off the seat to meet his lips, allowing no space between the two of them for hesitation. He bites at Yahaba’s soft lips and pulls on his hair, which is about a thousand times silkier than his own in a way that makes him think it might just break off in his fingers, but it holds strong.

Kentarou grips Yahaba’s ass with his other hand, locking it down over his hips as he rocks up against him. He squeezes at the soft, slick skin over the firm muscle and swallows a groan by kissing him harder. He curls his tongue around Yahaba’s in thick, wet strokes, the exchange of hormones apparent between them.

He gets into a comfortable rhythm and finds himself irritated when he feels his hand being pried away from his ass and something pressed into it, but that’s only until he realizes what it is. Where did he even get lube? But Kentarou doesn’t really care. He brings his hands into the gap between their torsos and nearly rips the cap off, not just because he’s impatient (he is), but because his hands, like his entire body, are wet and slippery. The air in his car is heavy and damp, and the lube is actually cool on his fingers.

Kentarou unceremoniously shoves two of his fingers into Yahaba’s ass and he squeaks and jumps. Yahaba yanks hard on his ear and glares at him. “You’re not romantic at all,” he complains. Kentarou knows he’s fine (he wouldn’t actually have done it if he didn’t know he would be, he’s not that much of a dickhead), but he was hoping for a reaction of this sort, maybe, and also to speed things up.

“I’m not a romantic guy,” he says with a rude grin. “Besides, what’s romantic about sticking your fingers up someone’s ass?”

Yahaba rolls his eyes and clamps his hand down on the bottom half of Kentarou’s face. Now he wears a grin of his own as he pushes his hips back over Kentarou’s fingers. He lets his mouth open slightly, sighs into his own shoulder as if he’s _really_ enjoying himself. Kentarou curls his fingers down and smirks again under Yahaba’s hand when he moans.

Having a hand covering half of his face makes him even hotter and sweatier than before, as if that were even possible at this point. He swears they are literally about to fuck in Hell. He opens his mouth with some effort and licks across Yahaba’s hand, tasting the salt of his skin. He’s just as sweaty as Kentarou is, even though he said he wasn’t bothered by the heat.

Yahaba jerks his now-moist hand back and wipes it across Kentarou’s chest. “God, you really are just a dog, aren’t you?”

“Grr,” Kentarou says.

Yahaba is smiling again. “Did you just flirt with me?”

He shoves in a third finger. “I’ll show you _flirting_.”

Yahaba moves back until Kentarou’s fingers are in up to the knuckle, expects the curl this time and lifts himself into it. His bangs are soaked and sticking to his forehead, and his skin is shiny to the point of looking like it’s glowing. Kentarou can’t see anything outside of the car, it just looks like white light, and it’s framing him. For a demon from hell, he sure does look oddly like an angel sometimes. Kentarou knows better, of course.

He pulls Yahaba down to kiss him again before he can make his chest start hurting too bad (or, god forbid, sass him some more). He barely has to move his hand because Yahaba is rolling over his fingers, he just stretches and curls them in a rhythm. His cock is aching and his blood pumps hard and fast through his veins every time Yahaba’s bumps against it, _god_ , he wants to be out of these pants.

Kentarou is losing his composure. It’s too damn hot and he’s wet and sticky everywhere, and he’s got a whole other person on top of him, practically smothering him, and all he wants is to get off and get Yahaba off and be done, but at the same time he doesn’t want to stop. Something about this feels special, unique somehow. “Are you good?” he mutters between kisses, almost completely drawing his fingers out.

“I could fit two of you at this point.”

“I fuckin’ doubt that.” But he’s relieved, and he wastes no time shoving his pants down and grabbing for the lube again. He’s slicked up and pressing into him within twenty-five seconds and he finally lets himself groan quietly; it’s too much relief to be silent. Yahaba matches his sound, sinking down as he pushes up until they’re flush against each other.

Kentarou feels like he’s going to melt, or come so hard he dies. His hands are slipping down Yahaba’s sweaty thighs, so he tightens his grip to the point of bruising; his finger sink into his impossibly soft flesh, but he gets no complaints. Yahaba just moves up and slips back down experimentally, giving a pleasured hum. He moves again, and then again, slowly establishing a steady pace. Kentarou moves one of his hands to Yahaba’s cock and strokes it roughly, earning another moan escaped through bitten lips that makes his dick hurt even more.

At some point they both close their eyes and don’t find it worth it to quip at each other anymore. The sounds of their skin slapping together, amplified by sweat, is mixed with the loud humming of cicadas and the occasional Dopplered sound of a car passing. Kentarou grinds his teeth to keep himself quiet, though sometimes something will escape from his throat. He can feel Yahaba’s smile whenever he loses his grip, even though he’s being louder, unabashed.

Kentarou comes hard and is not able to resist the gasp that pushes his teeth apart and bucks up hard into Yahaba. He barely even notices he’s still working his hand strong and fast, and after he does, he also realizes his hand is aching. Yahaba slips off him and sits on his stomach, arms shaking slightly. His hands are pressing into Kentarou’s chest again, the sweat stinging the wounds he left with his nails earlier.

Kenatrou switches hands and watches Yahaba’s face. His eyes open, maybe feeling someone watching him, and he looks down. He looks like he’s considering saying something to piss him off, but thinks better of it and just pants out more hot breath into the stuffy car.

“Kyoutani,” he says. Kentarou’s eyebrows draw together and down. He sounded completely bored. He works his hand faster, even though this one is starting to hurt too.

“Kyoutani!” That’s better, though it sounds unreasonably irritated.

His shoulders somehow slip off the edge of the car seat and his eyes snap open. “What the fuck?!” he yells as he catches himself on the arm rest of the bus seat. “Did you just fucking push me?” He whips around to face a fully clothed Yahaba, who sitting next to him, frowning at him.

“We’re almost there, and I was tired of listening to you make weird sounds.”

Kunimi is snickering behind them and Kentarou wants to punch him. “Leave it to you to be insensitive about someone having a bad fuckin’ dream,” he mutters, leaning back into his seat. “Jesus fuck, it’s like 38 degrees in here.” At least that’s a reasonable excuse for his face being red. He’s completely soaked through his track suit, but he’ll have to change his pants anyway.


End file.
